Wicked Under the Covers Read online

  Standish stopped nibbling on the woman’s shoulder. Lifting his head, he said, “Is that necessary? As it stands, her brother will be issuing challenges every time I step out of my house.”

  Fayre ground her teeth at the countess’s trill of laughter. Wiping her eyes with her fingers, she hugged the marble pillar and listened.

  “Not likely. Lord Temmes is almost as depraved as his father with regard to his liaisons. It would be rather hypocritical of him to accuse a gentleman of debauchery when he has seduced his fair share of innocents.”

  Lord Standish shook his head, unconvinced. “Not when that innocent is his sister,” he countered.

  “Darling, there is no such creature as an innocent Carlisle,” Lady Hipgrave purred. “Lady Fayre’s downfall was sadly inevitable. I should know. His Grace has shared my bed off and on for eight years.”

  The countess had only been twenty when Fayre’s father had seduced her. Even if Lady Hipgrave had been a virgin when she climbed into the duke’s bed, no one could ever convince Fayre that she had not been there willingly. Fayre knew enough about the young countess to form an unflattering opinion of her character. There had been rumors when she was younger that she had been the Prince of Wales’s mistress first. How she had gained the duke’s attentions was a favorite tale of the gossips. Fayre had heard several versions. One version ended with the prince growing bored with her and discarding her for another. The countess, in retaliation, had set her sights on the duke as a means of slighting the heir to the throne. Another version was more dramatic. It pitted both gentlemen against each other for the lady’s affections. If one believed the gossip, there had been a very public argument, the details of which varied with each storyteller. In the end, she had chosen the duke over the Prince of Wales.

  Even eight years ago, at the tender age of ten and tucked away with her governess at Arianrod, Fayre had heard the servants talk about her father and his beautiful mistress. The lady’s machinations had even roused her mother’s ire, Fayre recalled, and she knew of no other woman who was more tolerant of her husband’s infidelities.

  For generations the Carlisle males had been notorious for two things: their illicit love affairs and their equally dramatic deaths. With the exception of her father, Fayre could not think of one male ancestor who had inherited the title who had not died before his fortieth birthday. As a child, she had worried about what the servants had referred to as the Solitea curse. Nevertheless, her father had lived past his fortieth birthday and beyond. Considering his choice in mistresses, Fayre decided this feat was nothing short of a miracle.

  The sound of Lord Standish’s voice brought Fayre back to the present.

  “I regret telling you about Jinny and Solitea. You think of nothing else these days,” he complained.

  “Even if you had not told me that the duke had invited that bitch to his bed, someone else would have been pleased to share the good news with me.” Lady Hipgrave stroked his face in a soothing gesture.

  There was a wealth of bitterness in the countess’s voice. Fayre might have sympathized if the lady had not maliciously sent one of her lovers to Fayre as an emissary of revenge for her father’s misdeeds. Fayre wrapped her arms around herself in a comforting gesture. Everything Lord Standish had said to her was a lie. Their courtship had never been about love. He had never felt anything for her. Fayre faced the truth unflinchingly, letting the pain wash through her. She needed to be using her head, not mourning the loss of an illusion.

  Fayre suspected she knew this Jinny of whom Lord Standish spoke, though she knew the woman as Lady Talemon. Four years younger than Lady Hipgrave, the ambitious young lady had married her earl when she was sixteen. She had buried him when she was nineteen. The widow had grieved for her husband and then gone on to make the most of her title and money. She moved within the high echelon of the ton, spending her time dallying with the royal princes and their friends. Her beauty and liaisons had garnered her many enemies, including Lady Hipgrave.

  It must have galled the countess when the Duke of Solitea had chosen a younger, prettier rival as his latest companion. A predator in the truest sense, the countess had attacked who she had perceived was the weakest Carlisle. Fayre wiped away the tears she could not will away. Oh, she could not fault Lady Hipgrave for viewing her as a means to hurt the duke. However, the lady had underestimated her prey. Fayre was far from helpless and she was liable to strike back if provoked.

  There was no doubt she had stepped beyond feeling provoked. She felt murderous. Unlike her family, she had never permitted herself to be caught up in the illusion of love. It was that fact alone that had made Lord Standish unique. The feelings she had felt for him now shamed her. She could not decide who she despised more, the two people who were trying to ruin her, or herself for allowing them to do so.

  “It must be public,” Lady Hipgrave murmured.

  Lord Standish swore aloud. “My God, woman, you are fondling my balls in front of Mewe’s ugly ancestors. How public must it be before you let me have you?”

  “Not us,” the countess protested with a laugh. “The Carlisle chit. When you cast her aside, I want you to do it in front of witnesses. I suppose the young fool fancies herself in love with you?”

  “Completely.” His firm assurance was a knife in Fayre’s heart. He shoved the countess’s skirt higher. “There are few women who can resist my, ah, charms.”

  There was an unspoken challenge in the countess’s eyes. “Except me.”

  “Oh, I think I have something here that will persuade you, sweet Othilia.” Lord Standish had his back to Fayre, but there was little doubt of his intentions.

  Lady Hipgrave squirmed in his arms in an effort to hold him off. “In public, Thatcher.”

  “Yes, in public. I promise. Now let me have you,” he entreated.

  “I want her devastated. She will be both mocked and pitied by the ton for her fall from grace. I will settle for nothing less.”

  “Lady Fayre’s tears will taste of wormwood,” he vowed, kissing her harshly on the mouth. “She will embrace sorrow as a lover, and take no other man to her bed for the rest of her life.”

  “Is there no limit to your arrogance?” the countess marveled with approval twinkling in her eyes.

  “Absolutely none. Permit me to demonstrate.” Lord Standish shoved the countess against the wall. She made a startled sound, which turned into a moan as he thrust into her.

  Fayre watched the rutting couple dispassionately. The coldness of the night seeped into her bones. She told herself to slip away quietly while they were preoccupied. Confronting the pair served no purpose, and in her present state, she was likely to do or say something she might later regret.

  Leave.

  It was a sensible notion. Unfortunately, she was not feeling particularly sensible at the moment.

  Fayre used the marble pillar for support as she walked out into the open. “You make the most unusual sounds when you are in the throes of passion, my lord. It reminds me of a boar rooting for scraps of garbage in the filthy muck. Do you not agree, Lady Hipgrave?”

  “Damn me!” Lord Standish exclaimed, glancing at Fayre in genuine disbelief. He was completely undone by her sudden appearance. “W-what the hell are you doing?” He jerked himself out of the countess and tried to stuff his turgid member back into his breeches.

  “I beg your pardon for interrupting. My ears are weary from listening to the pair of you drone on and on.” Fayre admired the blasé inflection she managed, while she felt raw and bleeding inside. There was simply nothing she could do about either her tear-ravaged face, or the tremor in her hands. “Regardless, I have been rude for interrupting. Please carry on, my lord. I know from personal experience your ardor is regrettably brief.”

  Lady Hipgrave pulled her bodice up, covering her exposed breasts. “I have noticed this lamentable problem as well, Lady Fayre,” she said, shaking out her wrinkled skirt so that it covered her legs. The countess ignored her lover’s protest. “Still, a beau
tiful man like Thatcher has other uses.”

  “Like sending him to seduce an innocent woman who has done nothing to you.”

  The older woman did not even bother to feign ignorance. “You should be grateful I chose our Lord Standish to be your first lover. There are others who match his beauty, but are not . . . shall we say, as gentle.”

  Fayre glared at Lord Standish, wishing she could not recall that he had been indeed a tender lover. But he had claimed her innocence and it had been nothing more than a task for him, like writing a letter or currying his favorite stallion. “There is a name for gentlemen like you.”

  Once he had buttoned the falls on his breeches, Lord Standish turned to face her. His dark-blond hair was in damp disarray and there was a slight coloring on his cheek. Fayre suspected it had more to do with her interrupting his labors than shame.

  “And what is it, my lady? Disreputable rake? Liar?” he defiantly taunted.

  She stepped closer into the light and searched his face. Fayre wanted desperately to see some tiny sign that he regretted the part he had played in hurting her. She shook her head, saddened that all she saw was outraged arrogance. “No, my lord. Lady Hipgrave’s trull.”

  The pinkish hue on his cheeks darkened at her insult. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You are the one who behaved no better than a doxy, Lady Fayre. Though considering who your mother is, I expected no less. Or should I say, I expected more.”

  The composure she had managed snapped its tenuous tether. Blinded by fury, she struck him across the face. The impact had him staggering into Lady Hipgrave. “Leave my family out of this!”

  The countess shoved Lord Standish away. “Oh, I fear I cannot comply, my dear girl. It will spoil my fun.”

  Fayre’s hands curled into fists. The voluptuous Lady Hipgrave was six inches taller and outweighed her by several stone. Her disadvantage was not going to stop her from bloodying the woman’s pouting lower lip. Fayre took a menacing step toward the countess.

  From behind someone seized her roughly by the shoulder. She whirled and snarled at the offending hand.

  “Ho, what do we have here?” her host, Lord Mewe, demanded in a cheerfully slurring voice. He was not alone. The five gentlemen and three women standing behind him gaped in undisguised fascination at the scene they had interrupted.

  Lord Standish glared at all of them, the imprint of Fayre’s hand burning on his left cheek. “Mewe, I thought you passed out hours ago,” he said, visibly struggling to appear nonchalant.

  “Balderdash! I never pass out. Besides, you supposedly retired hours ago so how would you know?” The viscount gave Standish an exaggerated wink. “Taking ’em on in pairs, are we now?”

  Fayre deliberately took a deep breath and tried to slow down her breathing. She pulled her shawl tighter, suddenly aware of her half-dressed state. “My lord, this is very awkward.”

  “Calm yourself, child.” Lord Mewe patted her shoulder and withdrew his hand. “You are among friends. There is no need for explanations.”

  “But my lord, I feel I must. I—” Fayre’s confidence wavered as she glimpsed Lady Hipgrave’s expression. The woman did not seem bothered that their host and several guests had stumbled across them. In fact, the countess’s eyes gleamed with merriment. One would have thought the woman had been granted her fondest wish.

  Perhaps she had.

  “What we must do is retire,” the countess finished Fayre’s sentence. “I for one am exhausted.” Her inflection hinted at a double meaning to her innocuous words. Several of the gentlemen behind Lord Mewe chuckled behind their closed fists.

  Fayre shifted her gaze from one guest to the next, confirming her worst fears, for their faces were as easy to read as the Morning Post. They had put the vilest twist on what had occurred between the threesome. If any of them had doubts, she was certain Lady Hipgrave and Lord Standish would serve up enough half-truths to confirm their suspicions. By breakfast everyone in the household would know she was involved in some sordid affair with Lord Standish and her father’s ex-mistress. Fayre despaired, worrying that the gossip would reach London before she managed the journey by coach.

  Fayre cleared her throat, and gave her host an appealing glance. “I suppose you would not believe I have a problem with sleepwalking.”

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  Oh, God.

  She was ruined!

  2

  “What are you doing here?”

  The question was not directed at Maccus Knight Brawley. Even so, he lowered the newspaper he held out in front of him and lifted his brow at the young lady who had inspired the anger infused within the older woman’s whispered query.

  In truth, he had lost interest in the paper the instant she had entered the restaurant dressed in a crisp dark-blue spencer worn over a cambric walking dress with lace ruff. Her face lacked artifice and had a youthful glow. He doubted she had celebrated her twentieth birthday, while twenty-seven had passed for him. When she had entered the restaurant, a shaft of sunlight had haloed her slender figure as she searched the room for her companion. Maccus had never considered himself poetic in the slightest. Nevertheless, if someone had asked him to describe her in that moment, he would have said that she reminded him of spring. She wore sunlight like other ladies donned a cloak. His mystery lady was too far away to ascertain the color of her eyes; however, her hair was an unusual color. It was cinnamon in hue, and yet possessed an inner fire he could not put words to. Tiny corkscrew ringlets framed her face and, like most of the ladies present, she had the majority of her tresses tucked away within a cottage bonnet. He would have offered her anything just to see her remove her bonnet. A hunger he had never felt before rose within him. The intensity of it astounded him. He crushed a section of the newspaper in his hand when her eyes betrayed her delight at spotting her companion. Maccus hoped she did not belong to another man. He wanted the petite, celestial creature for himself.

  Smiling at someone beyond his left shoulder, she passed his table leaving her scent drifting on the air. He closed his eyes and the image of a meadow blooming with vibrant color came to mind. How his friends and business associates would have collapsed in a fit of laughter if he had voiced his musings aloud. Maccus was determined to learn the lady’s name. He considered it fortuitous that her companion was seated within earshot.

  “You have no business parading about town as if—”

  “As if what, Mama?” the younger woman demanded in a pleasant, albeit exasperated tone.

  Maccus shifted and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing them together, he noted a slight resemblance between mother and daughter. They shared the same nose, and tilted their chins in the same haughty manner. Both women put aside their argument when a waiter approached them. The mystery lady in the blue spencer politely declined all offers the waiter suggested and sent him away. The man passed by his table with a silly grin on his face. Maccus sympathized with the waiter. He might have worn a similar smitten expression if she had deigned to speak with him.

  The younger woman held up a silencing hand. “Have a care as to how you answer that question,” she warned, continuing the argument the waiter had interrupted. “Otherwise our conversation will be repeated at every ball this evening.”

  The older woman sagged in her chair, conceding defeat. “Oh, Fayre, my darling daughter, you are correct. I do not know what has come over me of late. Ever since—”

  “Not now, Mama,” Fayre said, cutting off her mother’s words. As if sensing his interest, her gaze shifted and unexpectedly focused directly on Maccus. The impact of that intelligent perusal left him breathless. With a dismissive sniff, her attention switched back to her mother. “Papa has returned. He desires a word with all of us. I thought it best that I be the one who searched for you.”

  “Your father never thinks these matters through. He should have locked you in your room and sent your brother out to find me.”

  “When I left, my brother had not arrived at the town house. Besides, I
was not certain if I would find you alone or . . .” She shrugged daintily, not bothering to finish her thought.

  Her mother brought her gloved hand up to her face and gasped. There was latent humor and a hint of mischief in her expression when she said, “Oh . . . Oh, I see.”

  Maccus clearly did not. Something unspoken had passed between the two ladies.

  “Quite right,” the daughter said crisply. “Appreciate the fact I occasionally do possess some sense. Come along, Mama. We can face Papa together.”

  Maccus discreetly observed the two women leave. Intriguing. His mystery lady possessed a few secrets. Even more fascinating was that he had not been the only patron observing the exchange between mother and daughter. After the ladies had departed, the chatter in the room escalated to a noticeable degree.

  Secrets.

  Maccus had a few of his own. He also had an abundant curiosity and natural talent for ferreting out what others preferred to keep buried. Setting aside his newspaper, he clasped his hands together. Her name was Fayre. Money would gain him her entire name before he paid his bill. Learning more about the lady’s private business would take a little longer. It did not matter how long it took. He was a patient man.

  An image of her face appeared in his mind. He wondered if she had ever allowed a lover to remove the pins from her hair, had permitted him to slip his hands through that thick, fragrant bounty of cinnamon and savor its silk-iness against his heated flesh. Maccus felt his cock harden in response.

  He growled in frustration at his lack of control. His desires in the past had been merely goals he attained through careful planning and ruthless execution when he had the advantage.

  He did not allow them to govern him.

  Until now.

  Fayre had not tarried at Mewe Manor. The thought of enduring breakfast, of sitting at the same table with Lord Standish and Lady Hipgrave—she shivered in reaction. Two hours after the dreadful encounter in the alcove, she had departed the manor.